Free Stone of Tears by Terry Goodkind

middle of the night.
    The shoulder of her dress pulled uncomfortably. She looked down and saw that in her haste she had misaligned the top three buttons. She redid them before pushing open the heavy oak door out into the darkness.
    A pacing guard saw her and came at a run. She held the book over her mouth to hide her yawn. He lurched to a halt.
    “Sister! Where’s the Prelate? He’s been yelling for her. Runs shivers up my spine, it does. Where is she?”
    Sister Margaret scowled at the guard until he remembered his manners and dropped a quick bow. When he came back up she started off down the rampart with the man at her heels.
    “The Prelate does not come simply because the Prophet roars.”
    “But he called out for her specifically.”
    She stopped and clasped her hand over the one holding the book. “And would you like to be the one to bang on the Prelate’s bedchamber door in the middle of the night and wake her, simply because the Prophet shouts for it?”
    His face paled in the moonlight. “No, Sister.”
    “It is enough that a Sister must be dragged out of bed for his nonsense.”
    “But you don’t know what he’s been saying, Sister. He’s been yelling that …”
    “Enough,” she cautioned in a low tone. “Need I remind you that if a word he says ever touches your tongue, you will lose your head?”
    His hand went to his throat. “No, Sister. I would never speak a word of it. Except to a Sister.”
    “Not even to a Sister. It must never touch your tongue.”
    “Forgive me, Sister.” His tone turned apologetic. “It’s just that I’ve never heard him speak out so before. I’ve never heard his voice except to call for a Sister. The things he said alarmed me. I have never heard him speak such things.”
    “He has contrived to get his voice through our shields. It has happened before. He manages it sometimes. That is why his guards are sworn on an oath never to repeat anything they should happen to hear. Whatever you heard, you had best forget it before this conversation is over, unless you want us to help you forget.”
    He shook his head, too terrified to speak. She didn’t like frightening the man, but they didn’t need him wagging his tongue over a mug of ale with his fellows. Prophecies were not for the common mind to know. She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.
    “What is your name?”
    “I am swordsman Kevin Andellmere, Sister.”
    “If you will give me your word, swordsman Andellmere, that you can hold your tongue about whatever you heard, to your grave, I will see about having you reassigned. You are obviously not cut out for this duty.”
    He dropped to a knee. “Praise be to you Sister. I’d rather face a hundred heathens from the wilds than have to hear the voice of the Prophet. You have my oath, on my life.”
    “So be it then. Go back to your post. At the end of your duty, tell the captain of the guards that Sister Margaret ordered you reassigned.” She touched his head. “The Creator’s blessing on His child.”
    “Thank you for your kindness, Sister.”
    She walked on, across the rampart, to the small colonnade at the end, down the winding stairs, and into the torchlit hall before the door to the Prophet’s apartments. Two guards with spears flanked the door. They bowed together.
    “I hear the Prophet has been speaking out, through the shield.”
    Cold, dark eyes looked back at her. “Really? I haven’t heard a thing.” He spoke to the other guard while holding the Sister’s gaze. “You hear anything?”
    The other guard leaned his weight on his spear and turned his head as he spat. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand. “Not a thing. Been quiet as grave.”
    “That boy upstairs been waggin’ his tongue?” the first asked.
    “It has been a long time since the Prophet found a way to get anything other than a call for a Sister through our shields. He has never heard the Prophet speak before, that’s all.”
    “You want we should make it so’s he